That night a sudden storm swept across Lucerne.
The thunder crashed like the boom of a thousand cannon; like menacing
blades the lightning flashed its tongues of savage flame; the winds
raved in relentless fury, rocking the giant trees like straws in the
majesty of their wrath. Madness reigned in undisputed sovereignty, and
the earth cowered and trembled beneath the anger of the threatening
heavens.
Opal crouched in her bed, and buried her head in the pillows. She had
never before known the meaning of fear, but now she was alone, and the
consciousness of guilt was upon her--the acute agony of their separation
mingled with the despairing prospect of a long, miserable loveless--yes,
_shameful,_--life as the legal slave of a man she abhorred.
She did not regret the one day she had given to her lover. Whatever the
cost, she would never, never regret, she said to herself, for it had
been well worth any price that might be required of her. She gloried in
it, even now, while the storm raged outside.
And the thunders crashed like the falling of mighty rocks upon the roof
over her head. Should she summon Céleste, her maid?
Suddenly, as the tempest paused as if to catch its breath, she heard
footsteps in the corridor outside. It was very late--who could be
prowling about at this hour? She listened intently, every nerve and
sense keenly alert. Nearer and nearer the steps came, and then she
remembered with a start that in the excitement of her stealthy return to
the hotel and the anguish and madness of their parting, she had
forgotten to fasten her door.
There came a light tap on the panel. She did not speak or move--hardly
breathed. Then the door opened, noiselessly, cautiously, and he--her
lover, her king--entered, the dim light of her room making his form, as
it approached, appear of even more than its usual majestic height and
power.
"Paul!" she whispered.
He seemed in a strange daze. Had the storm gone to his head and driven
him mad?
"Yes, it is I," he said hoarsely. "It is Paul. Don't cry out. See, I am
calm!" and he laid his hand on hers. It was burning with fever. "I will
not hurt you, Opal!"
Cry out? Hurt her? What did he mean? She had no thought of crying out.
Of course he would not hurt her--her lover, her lord, her king! Did she
not belong to him--now?
He sat down and took her hands in his.
"Opal," he muttered, "I've been thinking, thinking, thinking, till I
feel half-mad--yes, mad! Dearest, I cannot give you up like this--I
cannot! Let you go to _his_ arms--you who have been mine! Oh, Opal, I've
pictured it all to myself--seen you in his arms--seen his lips on
yours--seen--seen--Can't you imagine what it means to me? It's more than
I can stand, dearest! I may be crazy--I believe I am--but wouldn't it be
better for you and me to--to--cease forever this mockery of life,
and--forget?"
She did not understand him.
"Forget?" she murmured, holding his hand against her cheek, while her
free arm pulled his head down to hers. "Forget?"
He pressed his burning lips to her cool neck, and then, after a moment,
went on, "Yes, beloved, to forget. Think, Opal, think! To forget all
ambition, all restlessness, all disappointment, all longing for what can
never be, all pain, all suffering, all thought of responsibility or
growth or desire, all success or failure--all life, all death--to
forget! to forget! Ah, dearest, one must have loved as we have loved,
and lost as we have lost, to wish to--forget!"
"But there is no such respite for us, Paul. We are not the sort who can
put memory aside. To live will be to remember!"
"Yes, that is it. To live _is_ to remember. But why should we live
longer? We've lived a lifetime in one day, have we not, sweetheart? What
more has life to give us?"
He was calmer now, but it was the calmness of determination.
"Let us die, dear--let us die! Virginius slew his daughter to save her
honor. You are more to me than a thousand daughters. You are my wife,
Opal!--Opal, my very own!"
His eyes softened again, as the storm outside lulled for a moment.
"My darling, don't be afraid! I will save you from him. I will keep you
mine--mine!"
The thunder crashed again, and again the fury leaped to his eyes. He
drew from his pocket a curious foreign dagger, engraved with quaint
designs, and glittering with encrusted gold. Opal recognized it at once.
She had toyed with it the day before, admiring the richness of its
material and workmanship.
"She--has been--mine--my wife," he muttered to himself, wildly,
disconnectedly, yet with startling distinctness. "She shall never, never
lie in his arms!"
He passed his hand across his eyes, as if to brush away a veil.
"Oh, the red! the red! the red! It's blood and fire and hell! It glares
in my eyes! It screams in my ears! Bidding me kill! kill!"
He clasped her to him fiercely.
"To see you, after all this--to see you go from me--and know you were
going to him--_him_--while I went ... Oh, beloved! beloved! God never
meant that! Surely He never meant that when He created us the creatures
that we are!"
She kissed his hot, quivering lips. She had not loved him so much in all
their one mad day as she loved him now.
"Paul," she whispered, "beloved!--what would you do?"
There was only a great wonder in her eyes, not the faintest sign of
fear. Even in his anguish the Boy noticed that.
"What would I do? Listen, Opal, my darling. Don't you remember, you said
it was not life but death--and I said it was both! And it is! it is! I
thought I was strong enough to brave hell! Opal--though you are
betrothed to the Count de Roannes you are _my wife_! And our
wedding-journey shall be eternal--through stars, Opal, and
worlds--far-off, glimmering worlds--our freed spirits together, always
together--together!"
She watched him, fascinated, spell-bound.
"Dear heart, Nature will not repulse us," Paul continued. "She will
gather us to her great, warm, peaceful heart, beloved!"
Opal held him close to her breast, almost maternally, with a great
longing to soothe and calm his troubled spirit.
"Think," he continued, "of what my poor, unhappy mother said was the
cost of love--'_Sorrow and death!_' We have had the sorrow, God knows!
And now for death! Kiss me, dearest, dearest! Kiss me for time and for
eternity, Opal, for in life and in death we can never part more!"
She kissed him--obediently, solemnly--and then, holding her to him,
drinking in all the love that still shone for him in those eyes that had
driven him to desperation, he suddenly plunged the little dagger to its
hilt through her heart.
She did not cry out. She did not even shudder. But looking at him with
"the light that never was on sea or land" in her still brilliant eyes,
she murmured, "In--life--and--in--death ... beloved! beloved!"
And while he whispered between his set lips, "Sleep, my beloved, sleep,"
her little head dropped back against his arm with a long, peaceful sigh.
He held her form tenderly to his heart, murmuring senseless, meaningless
words of comfort and love, like a mother crooning her babe to sleep. And
he still clasped her there till the new day peeped through the blinds.
And the storm raged at intervals with all the ferocity of unspent
passion. But _his_ passion was over now, and he laughed a savage laugh
of triumph.
No one could take her from him now--no one! His darling was his--his
wife--in life and in death!
He laid her down upon the bed and arranged the blankets over her
tenderly, hiding the hideous, gaping wound, with its unceasing flow;
carefully from sight. He closed her eyes, kissing them as he did so, and
folded her little white hands together, and then he pulled out the
disarranged lace at her throat and smoothed it mechanically, till it lay
quite to his satisfaction. Opal was so fastidious, he thought--so
particular about these little niceties of dress. She would like to look
well when they found her--dear Heaven!--to-morrow!
"No to-morrow!" he thought. They had spoken more wisely than they knew.
There would be no to-morrow for her--nor for him!
There was a tiny spot of blood upon the frill of her sleeve, and he
carefully turned it under, out of sight. He looked at the ugly stains
upon his own garments with a thrill of satisfaction. She was his! Was it
not quite right and proper that her blood should be upon him?
But even then, frenzied as he was, he had a singular care for
appearances, a curious regard for detail, and busied himself in removing
all signs of his presence from her chamber--all tell-tale traces of the
storm of passion that swept away her life--and his! He felt himself
already but the ghost of his former self, and laughed a weird, half-mad
laugh at the thought as it came to him.
He bent over her again. He would have given much to have lain down
beside her and slept his last sleep in her cold, lifeless arms. But no!
Even this was denied him!
He wound a tress of her hair about his fingers, and it clung and twined
there as her white fingers had been wont to twine. Oh, the pity of her
stillness--her silence--who was never still nor silent--never
indifferent to his presence! She looked so like a sleeping child in her
whiteness and tranquillity, her red-brown hair in disordered waves about
her head, her eyes closed in the last long sleep. And he wept as he
pressed his burning lips to hers, so cold, so pitifully cold, and for
the first time unresponsive. Oh, God, unresponsive forever!
"Poor little girl!" he moaned, between sobs of hopeless pain. "Poor
little passionate girl!... Poor little tired Opal!"
And with a dry sob of unutterable anguish, he picked up the dagger--the
cruel, kind little dagger--and crept to his own room.
The dagger was still wet with her blood. "Her blood!--Oh, God!-her
blood!--hers! All mine in life, and yet never so much mine as now--mine
in death!--all mine! mine! And she was not afraid--not the least afraid!
Her eyes had room only for her overwhelming love--love--just love, no
fear, even that hour when face to face with the Great Mystery. And this
was her blood--_hers!_"
He believed that she had been glad to die. He believed--oh, he was sure,
that death in his arms--and from his hand--had been sweeter than life
could have been--with that wretch--and always without him--her lover!
Yes, she had been glad to die. She had been grateful for her escape! And
again the dagger drew his fascinated gaze and wrung from his lips the
cry, "Her blood--hers! God in Heaven! Her blood!--hers!"
He put his hand to his head with an inarticulate cry of bewilderment.
Then, with one supreme effort, he began to stagger hastily but
noiselessly about the room. The servants of the house were already
astir, and the day would soon be here. He put his sacred letters
carefully away, and destroyed all worthless papers, mechanically, but
still methodically.
Then he hastily scribbled a few lines, and laid them beside his letters,
for Verdayne would be with him now in a few hours. His father--yes, his
own father! How he would like to see him once more--just once more--with
the knowledge of their relationship as a closer bond between them--to
talk about his mother--his beautiful, queenly mother--and her wonderful,
wonderful love! Yet--and he sighed as he thought of his deserted
kingdom--after all, all in vain--in vain! It was not to be--all that
glory--that triumph! Fate had willed differently. He was obeying the
Law!
And his mother would not fail to understand. Verdayne must have loved
his mother like this! O God, Love was a fearful thing, he thought, to
wreck a life--a terrible thing, even a hideous thing--but in spite of
everything it was all that was worth living for--and dying for!
The storm had spent its fury now, and only the steady drip, drip of the
rain reminded him of the falling of tears.
"Opal!" he groaned, "Opal!" And he threw himself upon the bed, clasping
his dagger in uncontrollable agony. "O life is cruel, hard, bitter! I'll
none of it!--we'll none of it, you and I!" His voice grew triumphant in
its raving. "It was worth all the cost--even the sorrow and death! But
the end has come! Opal! Opal! I am coming, sweet!--coming!"
And the dagger, still red with the blood of his darling, found its
unerring way to his own heart; and Paul Zalenska forgot his dreams, his
ambitions, his love, his passion, and his despair in the darkness and
quiet of eternal sleep.
"_Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord._"